“Then, by Jove, you shall drink them in champagne!” exclaimed Hyde. He caught up a bottle of champagne that stood under the sideboard, from which the wire had been removed, and would have cut the string but for the restraining hand of Duffham.
“No, Hyde; you have had rather too much as it is.”
“I swear to you that I have not had a spoonful. It has not been opened, you see. My mother refused it, and Massock does not care for champagne: he likes something heavier.”
“If you have not taken champagne, you have taken other wine.”
“Sherry at dinner, and port since,” laughed Hyde.
“And more of it than is good for you.”
“When Massock sits down to port wine he drinks like a fish,” returned Hyde, still laughing. “Of course I had to make a show of drinking with him. I wished the port at Hanover.”
By a dexterous movement, he caught up a knife and cut the string. Out shot the cork with a bang, and he filled three of the tumblers that stood on the sideboard with wine and froth—one for each of us. “Your health, doctor,” nodded he, and tossed off his own.
“It will not do your throat good,” said Duffham, angrily. “Let me look at the throat.”
“Not until you and Johnny have wished me luck.”